What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Fourteen

 Pain.

It surrounded him, enveloped him like a dark cloud. It was heavy and dark, so heavy it was almost like he was being crushed. His head throbbed, heartbeats behind his eyes and a sledgehammer behind his skull. Blood had dripped down his face and neck, dark red rivers dried to his skin.

As he gradually came to, he realized a few things.

He was very cold, probably because of the stone floor he was laying on.

His jacket was gone, his very expensive, favorite jacket that had coins and pens in the pockets. No doubt they had been taken and sold, or adopted into a random stranger's closet. Wherever it was, it was gone.

Upon opening his eyes, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. It was a few moments until he realized he was between two prison cells, but the lighting was dim, making it hard for Thomas to make out anything significant. Especially when he was laying on his side. Which is where he stayed for a solid hour or so, not moving, hardly daring to breathe, because each inhale only worsened his already skull-splitting headache. He was scared that if he shifted, the pain would quite literally kill him.

The space around him was somewhat quiet, which he was thankful for, the only sounds were the soft murmurs from the people around him. He could tell it was almost evening based on the sky through the window in his cell. The far wall was stone, the others made of steel bars about a foot apart separating him from other prisoners. He assumed there were people in the cells next to him, but he didn't know who or how many.

Thomas remained silent, not wanting to draw attention to himself from anyone. As of now, he was an enemy to France, and questions were something he couldn't afford right now.

He heard a voice come from the cell next to him, and in his haze, tried to distinguish the words. He could make out their words pretty clearly, though, which was a good sign.

"Did you see the man they brought in yesterday?" someone asked. Thomas assumed it was a man, by the tone of voice.

"Oui. L'Amérique." A woman answered. Thomas was suddenly reminded of Eliza.

"Isn't he the man from a few years ago? Le Jefferson?"

"That worked with Lafayette to fuel the revolution? Oui. But now, he doesn't seem like he is one with France anymore."

The woman hummed thoughtfully. "A traitor? Or a thief like ourselves?"

Someone else spoke, with a deeper voice, from the other side of Thomas' cell. "I don't know, maybe he can tell us when he wakes." A shadow fell over Thomas' cell and he cracked open his eyes.

"Ah! Le american is awake at last," someone said.

Thomas winced. "Can I help you?" Maybe he should have been kinder, but dammit, his head hurt. Not to mention he wasn't exactly in the mood for a conversation with strangers.

"Easy there, friend," the man said. "We've been worried about you."

"Oh, I'm great," Thomas muttered, still on his side. 

"Can you get up?" the woman asked, and Thomas dreaded his answer. It meant moving, and moving was painful.

He shrugged as best as he could with one shoulder. "I don't know. Everything kind of hurts." He wasn't one to admit defeat so easily, especially in the presence of strangers, but then again he had been defeated quite easily by Leon and Josue.

But he knew he should probably try. And who knew, maybe the pain would abate once he sat up.

He was wrong.